


My Whole Existence Is Flawed

by Clarice Chiara Sorcha (claricechiarasorcha)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Crack, Exhibitionism, Hux is Not Nice, Kylo Ren Has Issues, M/M, Matt the radar technician - Freeform, Poor Life Choices, Stripperiffic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 10:11:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7711054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claricechiarasorcha/pseuds/Clarice%20Chiara%20Sorcha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Snoke told Kylo Ren to play at being Matt the Radar Technician, this is...<i>probably</i> not what he meant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Whole Existence Is Flawed

**Author's Note:**

> My brain's refusing to work at the moment, but for some reason the other day I got it into my head that it would be _hilarious_ if Ren, while being Matt, somehow got roped into team-bonding of the "we need to go be exotic dancers at some officer's shindig oh come on matt do it we get _paid_ and there are _free drinks_ and we need a _dude_ " variety and...yeah. In a misguided attempt to cheer myself up, this happened. So, it's wildly OOC and completely self-indulgent. Not to mention I wrote large chunks of it longhand, which I never do because I can't read my own handwriting. So let's blame the choppy writing and transcription on that, yeah?
> 
> Also, if you recognise the title, you know the song already. Just _imagine_ Kylo to that beat. Ha.

Ren is rarely of a mind to question the orders of his Master. But the endless drudgery of this masquerade cannot help but weigh upon him. Surely there are better things for him to do – other matters to which his unique skillset might be turned.

And yet, here his Master has him: in the garb of a mere technician, moving amongst the non-commissioned technical staff of the great hulking beast that is Starkiller. Here she is being birthed beneath the surface of a nameless planet, and they the attendant midwives. They are ever under the distant watchful gaze of Armitage Hux, who might as well be the expectant father, for all he hovers over all that they do.

The work is hardly difficult – not that it ought to be, given it is hardly the point of the exercise. With that said, Snoke has not made his exact orders clear. Not that Ren would expect otherwise, given that Snoke has never been a teacher to coddle his students, leading them by the hand to some foregone conclusion. There is _something_ he is to learn here, and the fact that he does not know what that is – well, that is not Snoke’s fault. He has asked this of him. Ren will follow it through until he has taken from it the lesson his Master had intended.

The shift has come to its end; Ren has been playing at being Matt for three full cycles this time, while Kylo Ren is himself allegedly off-ship on a classified mission. His return will come with the next cycle’s morning, and he yearns to slip this fool mask, to resume the other instead. Even in the claustrophobic confines of his helmet, Ren there finds a freedom he might not take anywhere else.

He could slip away now. The shift is over, and therefore so is the allotted time Snoke had indicated he required of him. But Ren still cannot be sure of what it is, that he is supposed to have achieved here. Before one of the lockers, he steadies himself, takes long slow breaths. The expansion, deflation of his lungs – over, and over, and yet the rhythm of it remains ragged, such petty technique ultimately useless.

But here, he cannot put so much as a fist through the durasteel, let alone the blade of a saber that he does not carry while wearing the face of Matt. With a half-swallowed snarl, he tugs at the bright vest, tosses it deep into the shadows of the locker where it still glows with garish colour. A moment later, and he pulls open the jumpsuit, undone to the waist and shrugged violently from bare shoulders, arms wrenched free of its confines. His usual clothing might seem more restrictive, to the untrained eye. But the close fit of his armoured tunic, the layered sleeves, the weighted robes – together, they can only be but more freeing than this charade.

“Whoa.”

He turns, sharp, a warrior’s reflex; one hand curls at his hip, eyes narrowed behind the ridiculous glasses. “What?”

“I…” The eyes of the woman, who should not have been able to come upon him so quietly, are very wide, wondering and fascinated. “Um. _Matt_.”

“ _What_?”

“It’s…” And she blinks, rapid as her lips twitch, somewhere on the verge of what might be a grin. “Matt, you’re like… _shredded_.”

He glances down. With the jumpsuit hanging down around his waist, his entire torso is on clear display. And the woman, a senior technician he has often enough worked alongside, cannot look away. The tip of her tongue, pink and damp, slips out, gathers in her upper lip.

“Don’t _stare_ at me.”

“I – oh! I’m sorry, I just…” She half-turns, and Ren can feel the uncertainty radiating from her in waves of confusion – and distinct arousal. It turns his stomach; he is quite aware that his body is aesthetically pleasing, but he has no intention of offering it up to such a woman on the pretext of empty pleasure.

A chill ripples across his skin, seeps deep, settles in his stiffened bones. Perhaps _this_ is what Snoke—

“This is going to sound really crazy, I know,” she says, sudden and fumbling. “But could you do me a massive favour?”

“A _favour_ ,” he repeats, slow, not quite warning. The woman babbles on regardless, as if he had not spoken at all.

“You see, one of the officers asked me to do _them_ a favour, and I said sure – the credits are always good, and who couldn’t use a little on top of their salary? But the problem is that I said I’d get some others in too, the way I usually do, but Nato – you know Nato, he’s usually working around the west alpha second sector? – well, Nato’s been off with that ankle injury yesterday, and apparently it’s not come right yet. So I need to find someone else, and it’s so last minute—”

“What’s last minute?” he asks, already frowning; he does remember Nato. He’s actually the one who broke the man’s ankle. The man’s very much all brawn and no brains, and Ren hadn’t been in the mood to work overtime. It says something, that even with the paperwork involved, Nato’s ungainly exit from the workplace had considerably sped up their assigned tasks that afternoon.

But it’s not as if the woman cares. She’s chewing on her lip now, eyes darting back and forth. “Um, well…” She pushes at her hair, loose strands of which that have worked free of its tight bun. It’s very blonde, and very thick – and for some peculiar reason, it strikes Ren that he has never seen it down.

And then she chuckles, soft and uncertain. “There’s a party tonight – some of the officers, I mean. Apparently they’ve achieved some goal, and the lieutenant in charge has decided to suck up to high command, show off his prowess, whatever. The thing is, they haven’t – well, they can’t just bring _entertainment_ on board a star destroyer, you know what I mean?”

Even without the benefit of his powers, Ren can read the intent in the slide of her eyes along his chest, lingering first over his abdomen, and then the low hang of the jumpsuit about narrow hips.

“You want _me_ to be their entertainment?”

“Well, you, me, and a couple other girls. We’ve all done it before – it’s just that they usually like at least one guy. And Nato’s usually pretty popular. But…” This time when she bites her lip, it is an open gesture, her breath quickening with the words. “You don’t have to do anything much. Just…kind of wear next to nothing, kind of wiggle to the beat. They’ll all be drunk off their asses by the time we get out there anyway.” Her eyes travel again, now inexplicably caught upon his navel. “They won’t care if you can’t actually dance, believe me.”

“Saret,” he says, and he’s surprised he even remembers her name. “Look at me.”

“I – shit. Sorry! I don’t mean to stare, Matt.” Her pale cheeks have pinked considerably, but there’s a genuine tilt to her smile. She’s very pretty, perhaps even – beautiful. But then, such creatures have never been unusual, in his life. He’d been born of extraordinary people, in extraordinary situations. Something so mundane as all this could never be his place.

“Look,” she says, and the rising tremor of her voice catches on a sigh. “Okay. It was stupid of me to ask. Forget it, I’ll just—”

“What time do you need me?” After a pause, he adds, “And when?”

For a long moment Saret says nothing at all, dark eyes very wide. Then she coughs, eyes shifting away. “I – the executive officer’s lounge, up by the aft end of their living quarters. Beginning of delta shift, though that’s just to prepare, the party won’t start for a while. You can get drunk off their booze first if you want, it’s a perk and it might make it easier.” And then her gaze is upon his again, more clinically assessing than before. “You don’t need to bring anything, I’ll find you something to wear. Just…have a shower, and all that.” She looks up again, hope painted across her features in broad startled strokes, as if she cannot quite believe her luck. “See you then?”

Ren has already turned back to his locker, lips pursed, mind turned inward. Snoke’s machinations are a strange mill, indeed. He does have to wonder what end product he is hoping to produce.

 

*****

 

At the beginning of the delta shift, the corridors around the lounge are quiet enough that Ren does not feel awkward in making his way there. Even if he did, it would be but the thought of a moment to mask his presence with the Force – but then, the use of his powers while in the guise of Matt feels unnatural, clumsy and strange. It is easier to hunch his shoulders forward, to move with eyes downcast, to blend into the shadows in the dark civvies of an off-duty technician.

But when Saret greets him, from across the bar – he stops dead. Upon the _Finalizer_ , colour is not forbidden, for all it seems it should be, given its rarity. Saret is dazzling amongst the greys and blacks: a vision in shocking green, jewelled and feathered, her long hair a tumble of pale blonde. After the drabness of her usual shapeless uniform, her body is a revelation: all rich curve and supple muscle.

“Hey, Matt. Eyes up, buddy.” But she’s grinning, curling a hand behind one ear. “I guess turnabout’s fair play, though.”

And he slants his gaze away, a self-effacing deference that comes easy to the technician. “I guess.”

Her hand is warm on his forearm, small and golden-skinned. “Come on, then – I’ve got something for you to wear.”

But in the back, as the brief wisp of material dangles from between forefinger and thumb, he supposes he has made a mistake.

“You want me to wear… _these_.”

“They’re new, if it helps. Like, I got them for Nato, but he’s never worn them or anything.” Now her hands have folded together, the heavily-made up eyes troubled. “You know, it’s not like you promised me anything, if you really don’t want to do this—”

“It’s fine.” But even as he strips off the shirt, the hairs upon the nape of his neck rise; he glances back, displeased but unsurprised to find her staring. Even with the time he has already spent as Matt, not to mention the years Ben spent as a Jedi acolyte, Ren has never really become accustomed to the easy nudity of those who live and bunk in such close quarters. Under his intense scrutiny she blinks, abruptly straightens.

“Sorry!”

While she’s turned her back, given the lack of actual material covering her ass she’s giving him a view no more scandalous than what she’d have got from him. With a shake of his own head, Ren shucks first his trousers, then the regulation underwear. His skin prickles as he steps into what Saret has offered, pulling the shimmering material of the brief costume up over his thighs, smoothing it awkwardly even as he supposes the fit is near perfect. But to glance down, to see so clearly outlined his own penis—

Sex had not been forbidden, in his youth. But given their ages, their isolation, their lack of control over powers that allowed them too much, too quick: it had been simply awkward. And in the case of the long-dead Ben Solo, left mostly unexplored. Kylo Ren himself had found little outlet in physical desire. And then, Matt himself had no particular desire to bed the other technician, but he was no monk.

“You done?”

He takes up his shirt, pulls it over his shoulders, but does not do it up again. “Sure.”

She turns again, dark eyes very bright in her pale features; she’s traced them in golden glitter, leaving them more luminous than they have any true right to be. “Well, it’s pretty straightforward. I go first, then Gerai, then you, and Treena is last. Have you got any particular songs you like? Popular ones? I have quite a lot on holo—”

With the flick of a careless wrist, he cuts her off. “Whatever you want.”

Her grin shimmers. “Careful who you say that to, out there.” One hand rises, the fingertips extended; for a dreadful moment, he thinks she might actually touch him. But a moment later she’s withdrawing, tucking her hands into her armpits, hair light upon her shoulders as she tilts her head at him. “Like I said, it doesn’t need to be complicated. They just want something to oogle.” And, again, that sudden upswell of genuine unease. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

He is suddenly very tired. “I already said I would.”

“All right.” It’s an odd gesture of something genuinely close to friendship when she says, “Drink?”

But he’s never had a head for alcohol. He’d always put it down to him being just another disappointment on the paternal side. Even though Ren sticks to water, pure and filtered through the starship’s massive treatment systems, it still tastes bitter, and old.

He sits out the back, away from the thong of people inside the bar, crowded into a small staff vestibule with the three girls. They are all in varying states of undress; aside from Saret being a technician, he recognises one as a junior engineer, the other explaining she’s from accounting. They catch on very early he’s not a talker, and leave him be while they gossip amongst themselves. It’s easy to lean his head back against the wall at his back, feel the thrum of the music through his bones. He’s never been that way inclined, but it is almost soothing.

And it says something for the role he is playing, when he only starts at the gentle closing of Saret’s hand on his. “Matt.” She tightens her grip, gives a little shake. “ _Matt_.”

He opens his eyes with difficulty, as if he’d been dreaming without sleeping. “What?”

“It’s your turn.”

Disoriented, the room tilts when he stands. “Oh.”

But she’s solid and real at the centre of it – and lightly sheened with sweat from her own turn upon the stage, frowning at his glazed eyes. “It’s better if you go out alone,” she begins, and makes an unhappy noise. “But if you’re too nervous—”

“I can do it.”

He gave that answer too forcefully – he can tell, because there’s that faint faraway look of a mind nudged by the powers he so rarely uses as Matt. “Okay. Good.” But when she purses her lips, her unease has crystallised into something more of a guilty look. “I should probably warn you about the guest of honour, though.”

“What?” He’s only half-shrugged out of his shirt. “Who?”

And she reaches up, takes his glasses, folds them neatly though she doesn’t put them down again. “Remember how I said a lieutenant had jacked this up? He’s sucking up to the General. And _that_ guy’s a tough sell, let me tell you.” Her head snaps around, eyes wide. “Well, there’s your song. Go get ‘em, Tech.”

As he steps out onto the makeshift stage, he finds the lights low, the voices of dozens of high-ranking officers a faint rise and fall over the crooning opening bars of his song. And there he is: Hux, seated before the stage, unmistakable and in full uniform yet. Though his chair faces the platform, he has angled himself away. While he’s speaking with the woman at his left, how he expects her to hear a word he’s saying over the relentless thump of the music, Ren will never know. But given she appears to say nothing at all in return, only moving her head in endless agreement, it might be a moot point either way.

The song is gathering tempo, and still he has not moved. Vague catcalls from the audience ask if he’s a droid, if someone has forgotten to plug him in. When he raises his head from his contemplation of Hux, scanning over the crowd, there’s a smattering of hollered approval. And he frowns. He had learned to dance, of course; one could not be the only son of a princess and a senator and not be forced to it from childhood. But to put oneself on display, this way—

He has only really known how to do that in one manner, and for one reason: to be examined, and to be taught. But the flow of a kata is a lovely thing, when performed properly. And it is easy to fall into one now, to allow the motion and speed to be directed, enhanced by the music. It’s not really dancing, perhaps. But Saret had said no-one expected him to dance. They only want to _see_.

And they cannot know what they truly see. Kylo Ren is never without his mask. Even the general himself has not seen his true face, and certainly not like this. Blond and almost nude, muscles rippling as he goes through the motions of one form, and then the next; even without a saber or training sword to hand, it comes to him as naturally as breathing. And their rising excitement cannot be denied; even when he is not actively trying to gauge the mood of the room, their desires are a driving force. It leaves him only with lingering, bitter contempt. They have no idea what it is before them now.

And Hux, general of the lot, knows it least of all. He’s _still talking_ , never once looking up at what is before him. The spike of annoyance drives deep into his gut even as he slips smoothly into the next form. He will not be overlooked, ignored, _dismissed_.

And he moves from the kata, stalking to the front; the gasping, the giggles from his now captive audience might have been gratifying, had Ren given a damn what anyone else thought. But the only one that matters is right before him, and still does not even turn his head. But with the height of the platform, Hux would only be able to see his feet anyway. It’s almost too easy to go to his knees, still high above the general even as his hips move in sudden grinding thrust, taking on what feels a life and intent of their own.

And still Hux does not look up. But he’s frowning, now – leaning close to the woman. _Too_ close. Ren’s vision, already strange and hyper-real in the pulsing light of the lounge, blurs. His muscles burn as he vaults down, stands before him.

Hux talks on. One bare leg moves out – and Ren catches Hux around one booted calf, rotating him back in the chair to sit straight, facing him. The tenseness of those around him is like a blow to the solar plexus, a collective indrawn breath. Ren doesn’t feel it. His world has narrowed to the man’s eyes, the faint amusement there as his arms cross over his chest, leaning back with an eyebrow quirked in clear challenge.

 _You have my attention_ , it says, silent and smirking. _Congratulations. But now – can you_ keep _it?_

His movements here are nothing of the discipline of his katas. This is sinuous, seeking, thighs bracketing the general’s knees as he comes ever closer. The temptation is to lean forward, to brace himself on those padded shoulders. But even his frustration has not yet driven him so far.

The music has ended. Hux’s light snort is almost too loud in the hushed silence of the room. And then, a hand flicks out – lightning quick, resting feather-light upon his waist. “Well,” he drawls, his voice something strange, so unlike the tones of command he usually favours; the underlying tones of an Arkanisian brogue, long suppressed. “ _Well_ , seeing as you’re so determined to thrust this in my face, shall we see if it’s the real thing? Or have you stuffed your codpiece just for show?”

It’s unexpected: those nimble fingers in quick movement, flipping down the front of the impractical underwear Saret had chosen. Before Ren can even think to protest by word or by motion, his half-hard cock springs free. And those eyes, cold as Starkiller snow, fix upon his as Hux leans forward, and – _licks_ along the shaft, the whole length from groin to tip, his tongue skipping in brief flick over the slit at its head.

“Oh, yes.” Slow, serpentine now, Hux leans back, fingertips pressed upon his lower lip. “I do believe that’s the genuine article.”

Ren cannot move, as if Hux himself had learned the trick of a Force hold. And still he remains unmoving, even as his hands return – this time, fastidiously putting him away again.

But Hux does not draw away. His gloved hands moved to the planes of his back, stroking his flanks in a slow slide down. Ren almost does not realise he has eased the underwear down in the back now, hitching it beneath the swell of his ass. His whole body has come alight, as if Hux’s fingers are as fire-touched as his hair. But those eyes, more green than blue now, have turned contemplative. And his palms remain open and still, thoughtful as a sculptor over the marble he has not yet begun to shape.

“A mighty specimen, indeed,” he muses. One hand shifts, and its fingertips move in gentle rub over his asshole. Even as it flutters Ren cannot suppress a startled whine; it earns him only a knowing smirk in return.

“But, alas, I have a superweapon to construct, and a star destroyer to command.” And in that Ren can hear, can _feel_ the deep pleasure Hux takes in his twinned command, when someone his age could in fact barely hope to have earned even one of them. “But I appreciate the offer,” he murmurs, though he’s stealing a glance sideways, languid and laughing. “Wherever _did_ you find him, Konrad?”

Ren bristles, entire body tensed to fight. He is no gift to be given away. But Hux is already turning back, pulling forward, one hand fisting in his hair. And then he’s pulling forward, forcing him down, leaving Ren straddling slim hips, seated now in his lap. His throat works in gasping swallow when Hux tilts his hips, the hard length of him pressing up against his own.

“Don’t _pout_.” He lets go of his fistful of hair, strokes along his face with teasing scorn. “Though I will say, you _are_ pretty when you do.” A tilt forward, and damp lips mouth over the tender curve of one ear. Though they are scarcely spoken, the words still burn like a scream.

“We’ll do this later. _Kylo_.”

Something between elation and horror moves through his bloodstream, quicker than spice and far more potent. But even as he is left staring, Hux lands a slap to his ass, leather warm over bare skin. Then he’s pushing him away, turning back to his original conversation. Half-blinded, stumbling, Ren turns away. The music is starting again – for the next and final act. But there’s no need for him to watch. He is finished already.

Except: he is not. There is a refresher near their vestibule, and his dick is so hard Ren can barely walk, let alone see where he is going. There’s just enough sense in him to hear Saret’s voice, raised in clear concern, calling to him. But he brushes past, locks himself into the ‘fresher with a careless wave of one hand. All his mind cares for now is the memory of Hux’s laughing whisper, so fresh and so sweet.

 _Kylo_.

And as he stares at the mess of his hands, he knows that this cannot be Snoke’s will. But as he raises his gaze to meet that of his reflection, finding it wild-eyed and grinning, he realises he does not actually give a damn.

 

*****

 

Kylo Ren enters the bridge, the usual kerfluffle of unease that ripples before him like a herald of chaos, the disordering of the neatly drawn lines Hux has made of his staff.

Hux himself stands as a spearhead before the great viewports, front and centre, crowned in gleaming copper-gold. Some part of Ren has long envied his general that – he, who has been given so much by the vagrancies of birthright alone. Hux does not look to him, glittering eyes silvered by the brilliance of the starfield laid open and wanting before his unblinking gaze.

Ren says nothing, neither by word, nor by thought. Hux had never appreciated such gesture, and Ren suspects he never will. It doesn’t seem to matter. Here, now, Ren simply _is_ – and perhaps that is easier.

“Lord Ren,” Hux says, and those clipped vowels are so at odds with the lilting sing-song of but hours ago. “Might we have a word?” When he tilts his head, the light halos him in brilliant crimson supernova. “In my office, if you would be so kind.”

Ren inclines his own helmeted head in return, fractional and careless. “General.”

He does not follow – but it seems Hux does not expect it of him, for all that game has played out many a petty time between them. He has not even the urge to reach out, to trace fine tendrils of the Force along the durasteel vaults of the other man’s mind. Rather: he allows himself a memory instead – of music, and of movement. Of casual surrender to a new rhythm, the beat taking nonchalant prisoner of something he hadn’t even known he had to surrender.

Their steps fall into perfect matched time as they cross the floor, side by side. It is but a short journey to the office Hux uses when he requires his privacy while remaining close to the bridge, and as they step inside its panel lights up with the highest security clearance upon the ship. Not that Ren particularly cares; he can override it whenever he chooses to.

Not that Ren wants to. Not now. Not with Hux’s slim body moving to the desk, seating himself behind it with fluid grace. And one long leg rises as he turns himself parallel to the desk, stretching along its length; a moment later, and the other echoes the motion, crosses neatly in crisp perfect line, as if drawn by a master architect’s rule. The elegant ankles link, one eyebrow rising as a gloved hand comes to rest lightly at his hip, drawing Ren’s gaze down.

And the other hand rises, flicks pale fingers against the rising temperature of the charged air between them. “Well?” he asks, and it is so pointed, so _perfect_ , that beneath his mask Ren’s mouth opens on a laugh, silent and wide. It is a long moment indeed before he can speak, again.

And Hux waits, for all he is no patient man. But here Ren knows for the first time how very long they _both_ have waited, for this.

Ren waits no longer, stalking about the desk, a hulking figure in black. “I thought you only wanted a _word_ with me, General.”

“And we’ve had too many words already, I should think.” He smiles, hand stretching imperious between them; the other has already moved to his belt, fingers quick as Ren sinks to his knees. “But, Kylo – I rather imagine we still have much yet to _discuss_ , don’t you?”

Ren doesn’t say another word. It doesn’t matter. Besides, his mouth is already full.


End file.
